


Secrets We Would Never Tell

by cleliakm



Series: Wrong Path [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Assassins, Bisexuality, Blood and Violence, F/M, M/M, Multi, Near Death Experiences, New Adult, Romance, Terrorism, Tokyo (City)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:48:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26344390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleliakm/pseuds/cleliakm
Summary: Isla couldn’t wait for the moment to move away. She wanted to leave behind the horrors she had seen and lived in Paris. When the embassy confirms her dad's transference to Japan, after weeks of waiting, everything left to her was to breathe relieved.She knew it would be a constant challenge - an unknown language, completely different mores, and she had to transfer colleges for the third time in less than two years. She already expected all of this.But she didn't expect that in Japan she would find a really annoying, uncomfortable and egocentric reason to convince her that it was about time to create some roots - and perhaps not the only one.
Series: Wrong Path [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1914313
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, guys! 
> 
> How y'all are doing?  
> So, first of all, before we start, take a moment to read this:  
> This is an original story of mine, written in portuguese (brazilian portuguese), and I'll be posting it after translating the few already published chapters (on another plataform). The translation will be made by me and Mariana, a friend of mine which is reviewing everything, but we are not native english speakers, so if you realize something isn't making sense or sounds weird, please let me know! I'm always trying to improve my writing both in portuguese and english, but somethings can be mistaken or sometimes I can write some things weirdly/wrong. 
> 
> After this, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Violence; anxiety disorder; suicide; depression; death and blood. If you do feel uncomfortable about some or all of those things, please be aware. If those are triggers, I do recomend you not to read this story. 
> 
> Original name: Segredos que Nunca Contaríamos  
> Original series name: Trem Errado  
> Translators: Clélia Kruschinski Müller and Mariana Oliveira de Andrade Lima

**Prologue**

Burning bodywork smelled horrible, but burned human meat smells much worse.

You see, unlike english, where when a person is dead, you only know how to define it because of the pronoun used, in this case, he or she, in spanish you can define it because of the word used. “Muerto” for men, “muerta” for women.

I learned my first spanish word on my own like this.

A car accident. It all happened very fast. In a moment, everything was fine. The other... I didn’t know how to describe it any more.

“The woman is dead.”

“There is a child.”

“Ambulance” and “Hospital”.

Dead woman. My mother was dead. Only she and I were in the car at the time of the accident.

Excruciating pain. Physical first, emotional later.

Waking up alone. A security guard staring at you uncertainly — what to expect? Would I do something? How would I react?

Eyes fixed. Blond hair with dry, sticky blood. Twisted bones. Loose and broken jaw. Open up fractures.

 _Muerta_.

**  
**

I jumped on the chair when I felt a hand on my arm, waking me up, with Nicolas smiling. My eyes complained about the clarity a moment later, narrowing.

“Happy to be a reliable company so you can sleep” he commented calmly, continuing to leaf through a book.

The light on my chair was off, but his was on, of course. The corridor was also dark, lit only by the floor lights, since it was night, but little by little some lights from each chair began to turn on.

I heard the flight attendant introduce in french that we were about to land in Tokyo, then I stared at Nicolas, remembering where I was, with whom, and where I was going.

“You are my bodyguard, if I don’t trust you, who will I trust?” I provoked, with him smiling at the book, agreeing.

“I'm going to miss Paris.” He commented, pretending to read. I narrowed my eyes at him.

He was reading the Art of War, in chinese. I knew which book was not because it was written with a caption that I could understand on the cover, but because I knew how the author's name — Sun Tzu — was written in Chinese. It was one of the few things I knew how to define in chinese (or even asian) writing.

“Where are you going?” I asked, looking up from the book to him.

Nicolas could only be an elite security bodyguard within the European Union. That was due to diplomatic immunity. He needed some promotions before he could be a security for influential personalities outside the EU. As far as I knew, he was a greek citizen, at least that's what his information said, but he could never tell if it was a lie. For his safety and because of the nature of his work.

“Not to France.” He replied evasively, keeping his cool.

A smile played around the corners of my mouth. 

He looked up from the book, looking at me in a serious way.

“Whenever you need me, I'm a call away.” He spoke calmly. Practical as always, but with a gentle touch that he kept for moments like that.

I nodded my head. If I heard right, we had ten minutes. Once we landed in japanese territory, he was no longer my bodyguard. He would be there just to make the exchange with the security officers responsible for me during my stay in the country. Pass my dossier. This kind of thing.

I wondered what kind of information was too private and what kind of information was he obliged to give. I knew that he needed to go through the entire menu of foods that I liked the most — because not only did he knew, but several terrorists. He also needed to pass my habits on to security — if any of them interrupted my movie time, I would become a lion.

Not literally, that part was just drama, but I liked to see them shake a little bit. It brought animation for rainy days.

“Thank you” I said, softly. “I know it was partly your job, but the other part…” 

He smiled.

“I know.” His eyes found mine, kindly. They were blue as seawater, and he had little crow’s feet in the corner of each eye. He smiled too much when he wasn't working, so there was the result.

It was a very quick and practical gesture, but it meant a lot — his hand rested on mine for a moment, strategically behind his book. A light, gentle grip.

And then it was over.

And, since it was over, let's go to some facts about me:

  * I like to travel, I inherited it from my parents and I don't think it will change — no matter what problems I go through with it.
  * I really enjoy getting to know new cultures.
  * I don't know anything about Japan, except that
    * It is a country in Asia;
    * Tokyo is very beautiful;
    * They speak japanese (a language in which I can't say “hi”, unlike my father);
    * There are many earthquakes, but buildings and constructions in general are prepared for this.



As can be seen, I was immersed in quite an adventure, nothing to be expected by me or anyone close to me. The bags packed in a hurry declared that, but that was something I was good at. I was able to systematize what was needed and summarize what I would need. Saying goodbye to some people was more complicated, but it would never be impossible.

I was still brooding over some of the things that had happened in the past few months, so the pain I had been through was constant, but I could understand that it was not my fault that those people were dead. That my house... or that my dog...

I struggled to get the suitcase from the conveyor belts because of the tears in my eyes. The landing had been quick and efficient, unlike many others that I had already been, so I had managed to arrive quickly on the conveyor belts to get the luggage.

One of the first things I noticed was the local writing. As it was an airport, of course it had other languages in the form of a caption, but the main language was japanese, and it was written in their symbols. I knew that a place was a bathroom, even because it had the international symbol, but I could never guess that that writing (symbol?) meant “bathroom”.

I waited for the other suitcase for a few minutes, displaced. Everyone spoke japanese around me, I think. A couple spoke french, disembarking from the same flight as me, but that was all. I didn’t see any people from the west there, except for a few tourists who had landed with me, but were soon gone. Nicolas was close, but his presence was barely noticeable. Mika, responsible for the logistics of all my security and my father’s, was further away, but it was just us.

Unlike Nicolas, Mika would stay with us in Japan. Not because he loved the place, but because Mika had been with us since I was eleven years old, after my mom’s death. He knew the problematic points of my safety and my father’s, he knew all the problems that could be caused if something horrible happened to me, as it had happened to my mother.

I took the other bag, which was a giant bag, and waited for the last bag, the second one on wheels. In it, I had my favorite books, makeup, perfumes and jewelry. It was my most precious bag. I even thought it could be stopped due to chemicals, but I think that diplomatic baggage — with a glued stripe that said it could only be searched and opened in specific cases — made my life a little easier.

I picked it up with difficulty, on an almost empty conveyor, since most people there were either arriving on a tourist trip, or going for one, not moving, so they didn’t have so many bags, so a few people and I were still waiting for our luggage.

I packed my bags in the transport cart I had taken as soon as we landed, securing everything there and organizing the luggage, packing my backpack on the back and taking my document out of my pocket, handing it over to Nicolas.

He and Mika exchanged a quick glance before he disappeared, going after the UK embassy representative. Mika moved quietly around the place, taking his suitcase with him, on the other side of the conveyor, then moving again, keeping his eagle eyes in the place’s safety.

I took the phone out of my jeans pocket, seeing it was two in the morning. I was exhausted — I had spent almost a day and a half in airports and flying —, I just wanted to go to sleep, but I still had a long way to go.

I took the cart and started to pull it back, starting to maneuver with difficulty because of the weight, and I was about to be able to turn everything around given the weight, when I ran fast into someone.

My forehead hit something hard when my body staggered — possibly the bone in his shoulder, as far as I knew about anatomy — we both staggered to the beat and I almost fell, holding on to the cart.

As soon as I looked ahead, when I turned around, I saw that the person I had run into did the same.

And then he snorted. He said something in Japanese, which _I’m sure_ wasn’t cool.

“What did you say?” I spoke coldly in English.

He was taller than me. In the level that my head just past his shoulder. He didn't wear a cap like me, so I could see his hair was dark as night, black from aching, almost blue. His eyes were like expected — since he had strong oriental features — and a more delicate face than the guys in the west. His lips twitched in a mocking smile, and I could have sworn he was going to give me some martial arts blow. Seriously, I could have sworn.

He lowered his face to stay my height. This made his entire spine bend.

“I said: look where you're going, _outsider_ ” He spoke, cold. His English scratched, but he understood me and I understood him.

My eyebrows went up.

“I was arranging my bags, you have to be careful with the conveyor belts. Nobody has an eye on the back of the neck!” I spoke, quick and agile. It wasn’t the first time that they treated me badly because I didn't know how to speak the native language, or because I was definitely a foreigner.

He seemed surprised that I replied.

His eyes were brown. I could see that at that moment, because he widened his eyes. The reflection of the light did not let me see before.

“So you're blaming _me_ for being _careless_ with your own things and body? It was enough to look back before turning around, like a normal person.”

My mouth opened and closed, like a fish. An ugly one.

He opened the smirk from before again.

And he repeated the first word I learned in japanese: _outsider_. The way he spoke that word made it clear that my presence there was not very well appreciated by him.

Then he turned and left, carrying a backpack on his shoulders and following two other guys who were waiting for him. One stared at me, lifting sunglasses and analyzing me, then smiling playfully. The three looked tired, as did anyone arriving from the international landing. The other didn’t even look at the one who had taught me my first word in the local language.

It was difficult to swallow that time.

And I allowed myself to look around for the first time, but really look. I knew that Japan would be much more different than Mexico had been, or France. Even Russia.

The girls were very thin, to the point of bothering me. Thin and small waists. Even adult women looked like models. The men were tall and slim, and just as thin.

Of course, there were people who weren’t skinny, but you could still see their physique — it was slim, slender. It was phenomenal. Their anatomy was small, in terms of waist, bust, shoulders, that sort of thing.

Their features were quite strong, and I hadn’t found much light hair around. These features, although strong, were not marked. They were... light. People confused me because they looked the same and then different, because the traits were different, like any other trait in people in the west. They were not the same, but at the same time I had so much new information that it was disconcerting.

An airport security guard arrived moments after that, accompanied by Nicolas. He checked my credentials, and then took me to the waiting room, where I would pick up my cats. An attendant informed me that in approximately three hours they would be released, after supervision. I still had three hours to wait, then.

My dog was still in Paris, under supervision. My father would come with her in a week, which was his term at the embassy there. In the meantime, I would start to adapt here.

There was a problem, of course. A fairly common one.

It was seven at night in Paris.

I had jet lag. I couldn’t sleep. Even if I wanted to because of fatigue, it would take me a long time to get to the apartment selected by my father and approved by the embassy, so I would have long hours of torture ahead of me.

I cringed when I noticed some girls staring at me taking my bags to the VIP waiting area. Man, their features were very beautiful. I understood why asian models were so popular and stylish. There was no way to beat that kind of beauty. Worse, they dressed like models. Not that I dressed badly, but I could tell they cared about the clothes. The style.

And I was an _outsider_ . I stood out, unlike in Mexico, Russia, England or France. Much less in Scotland. There, I was the different person. _Outsider_ , that’s what he called me, right? The word sounded strange to me, and I couldn’t write it in Japanese, but I think I could speak it. It started with G, at least that I knew how to say. It was what I was there, and I knew that the next few months would be complicated until the adaptation happened.

I took a deep breath and went through the doors of the VIP room. Not that I understood the japanese writing, but it had english subtitles.

It was a beginning. A new beginning. I could be dead, in a way I knew I _should_ be. But I wasn’t, so I needed to live and fight with claws and teeth and everything that had been given to me. Fresh starts are for that, isn’t it?


	2. 1. Ichi

**"One"**

**ISLA**

It was hella cold at the point that only God could explain. 

Even Mika put on gloves. And Mika was _russian._ Nicolas had already said goodbye and was waiting for his flight back to some country that he hadn’t told me which it was. And now a driver greeted me with a nod, respectfully.

He was japanese, of course, and he was driving the UK embassy car. There was a very stylish little flag on the side of the car's hood, which made a lot of people look at me.

As if the fact that my facial features weren’t common in Japan didn’t get enough attention. And my hair. And the perfect pointed nose because of a plastic surgery I had done.

Natural genes can’t buy everything, can it?

Some people also stared at Mika, but he managed to disguise in a better way that he was not japanese. Dark hair helped. Okay that his cold, calculating and surly face easily made him detach among the japanese.

The driver introduced himself, his name was Ashikaga Fumihiro and he would be accompanying us to the building where I would be living. Fifty floors and a penthouse, I would be on forty-seven. The neighborhood was called Minato, with a strange accent that I didn't expect. Ashikaga was the family name. Fumihiro was his first name, if the writing was western. But we were no longer in the west.

I had already seen a photo of the apartment, of what my room would look like and of the view of it. I knew how to write the name of the neighborhood in both japanese and western writing. I knew how far it was from my apartment to the embassy and I knew how far it was from the embassy and the apartment to the university that had applied for transfer.

Contrary to the usual procedure, my application passed over some others. Not because I was someone special, much less because I was the daughter of a diplomat, but because my name couldn’t stay in the system any longer than necessary and because I was under the protection of Interpol. This type of information is taken to the secretary of the faculty where I request the transfer, by an agent, who speeds up this analysis of my documents and submissions, as well as requests.

I looked around the street, observing so much information in a language that didn’t even use the same form of writing as mine, that I got a headache.

I took a deep breath, thanked — in English — the driver, and got into the rear passenger seat. My throat was blocked by nausea and confusion, as I had never felt. It was quite uncomfortable.

I was inside a sedan car, as I was used to. This made my body relax a little. It was expensive, it had leather upholstery that smelled clean, even though it wasn’t new. There was also a partition between the two rear seats, with enough space for a folder of documents to be placed there, and the seat next to me — which my father occupied when we traveled together — was empty. Mika sat in the front seat, with the driver packing his bags in the trunk, calm as he walked around the car.

Unlike my father, my cats were on the backseat in their transport huts. They were doubles and attached to each other, as they were at the moment, but we disconnected the pair for international flights to better identify who was who. They both dozed off, looking uncomfortable and upset, but it was not the first time they were doped to travel internationally. I had adopted them in Russia, so Japan was their third country.

Mika was watching everything around, serious, taking off his gloves because of the car heater. I took off my cap for the same reason.

Japan was my sixth country. Born in Scotland, with a few months living in Mexico, moved to England after a few weeks in Scotland (again), then went to Russia. After Russia, I ended up in France, my last place before arriving in Japan. It had been over eleven years since I had set foot in Scotland, in my homeland.

The drive to the apartment, my new home, was not very long. I think it lasted about twenty minutes and it was quite fast, since it was five in the morning. There was a lot of traffic, but it was Sunday, so there would be no queues, of course. I had little time to capture so much information, but I got two that stood out: very tall buildings and neon colors, especially blue and red; a little yellow too.

The car stopped at the entrance of the building, with a doorman running up to us. Mika opened his window, showing the badge and then pointing his head at the seat behind him, where I was. I smiled kindly, with the porter smiling at me.

“Miss Forsyth-Aitken”, I saw that he had trained a lot to say it all in english and on the right pronunciation, but he had it wrong in the right pronunciation: scots. Not that I blamed him, I wouldn’t be able to say his name in the correct japanese pronunciation either “your spot is 10B. I'll be waiting for you at the apartment door. It’s the 4702.”

I nodded, thanking him with a smile on my face.

The parking lot had three floors. One went down, another went straight and another went up. A security guard informed me that my place was underground, and we went to it. Mika was not happy with the location of the parking lot, but did not speak a word.

I smiled at my cats, Nica and Peta, with Fumihiro opening my door for me, while Mika observed the place, walking through the parking lot and nodding to Fumihiro.

I grabbed my backpack from behind the driver’s seat, putting it on my back and then walking around the car, opening the door opposite mine and taking my cats. Mika took his suitcase and an armored suitcase, with two security locks, which he had removed with a British ambassador. The rest of my bags I would pick up later, on the second trip to the apartment.

The elevator played ambient music that was _definitely_ japanese. Floor 47 was selected by Fumihiro, who was in front of me, as well as Mika. Both would be the first to be hit if the doors opened and someone was aiming at me.

Over the years, living and spending more time with security than with your family, they discuss strategies with you and explain some things to you. Mika, by the way, was the one who had instructed me in several things. He who explained the need for me to learn how to handle weapons, the need to know how to fight. Today, I was a black belt in karate. It was Mika’s favorite martial art, and he was a black belt when he started teaching me, when I was twelve.

The elevator doors opened, and luckily the only person who stared at us did not hold a gun. It was the porter.

He introduced himself, opening the apartment door for me, since my hands were busy. Fumihiro entered first, returning two minutes later, confirming to Mika, who was evaluating the glass windows on our right. The location was beautiful. The building was relatively new, with several windows — but I noticed that this was a pattern of japanese buildings — and it had two apartments per floor. One on each side. The elevator had its back to one of the apartments, facing the other, which was the largest. In this case, my apartment was the largest.

I entered the room, seeing that I was in front of a living room. On my far right, floor-to-ceiling windows, huge but armored, from what I could see from the refraction of street lights. Two of them were able to be opened, the rest were fixed.

So, between me and these windows, was my new living room. The decor was white and green, with details in neither dark nor light brown. Like beach sand. There was a panel on the wall opposite the entrance door, with photo supports — empty — and with Japanese decorations, such as small sculptures, an incense to be lit and a candle, as well as two flowers in different vases. There was a flat screen television on the white panel, with wooden decor.

Next to the panel and before the room opened to a small square that showed me four doors, there were two large frames with pictures, one with an image of Tokyo, the other with an image of Scotland. I knew it was Scottish because I would recognize that place anyway. Home.

It had a low coffee table with white legs, but with a brown lid, the same color as the back of the television panel. The sofas were white, with a sofa for three people and two armchairs with their backs to the large windows. They all had green cushions with white flowers drawn with a seam that appeared to be oriental. Western was not.

I looked at the wall beside me, seeing pictures with written Japanese words, recognizing two, from the teachings of karate. Patience and spirit.

Mika also seemed to have recognized it, because he seemed satisfied.

Below the paintings was a closed, white counter with some vases (empty, so I think it was part of the decoration) and sculptures on top, with three animal feed jars right next to me, along with an empty litter box, a litter bag for cats and also two bags of cat and dog food.

I only knew what it was because it had a drawing, since I couldn't understand a damn word of what was written on the bags.

I smiled happily when I saw that they had already foreseen this, with the doorman calling me.

“ _Sama_ Hattori left it yesterday for you _._ She did the cleaning and asked me to let you know that she will be coming today to check if you need something.”

“Who?” I asked, confused.

“Hattori Naoko” he replied, confused, then understanding. “Ah, your housekeeper”. 

“Ah.” I got it, agreeing. “Thank you”. 

He lowered his body in respect, handing me the key and then saying goodbye, leaving.

_Sama_ looked like it wasn’t her name. It was only Hattori Naoko. What did _Sama_ mean?

Mika closed the apartment door, with me looking to the left. Dining table with white legs and brown cap, six chairs. There was also a flower on top of it - a single, yellow tulip. Behind the table, there was a three-seater counter dividing the kitchen room, with an opening in the wall, connecting the two rooms, with a door to go through his left. The walls were a pastel shade, light brown, almost beige.

The decor over the opening to the balcony, on the ceiling, was cool. I had never seen that. A picture of bamboo stretched across the top of the ceiling. In reality, the picture was a little too much considering what it was: they were actually bamboo sticks, one by one, on top of the opening of the counter. It required a lot of legwork and was part of the house, not literally the decoration.

I went to the kitchen, seeing a well-equipped and quite western place, contrary to what I expected. Fumihiro watched me, then speaking, calmly.

“Some equipment was modified and imported. Some equipment had it’s manual printed in English for you to understand how to use.” He explained, kindly. Mika agreed to it, analyzing the location.

“Kind from the embassy.” I said, smiling.

“Ah, it wasn't the embassy.” He spoke calmly. “It was the building manager. The embassy informed me before I went to the airport. They want you to feel welcome and to make Japan your home.” He smiled weakly, lowering his head in respect.

“Oh.” That was all I could think to say. It took me by surprise for real.

Mika had a weak smile on his face when he saw my expression. He had known me for eleven years and knew that since then I had not gone home. I knew that home, for me, had a strange concept. Mika and I had met at the airport in England, when I landed from Scotland to live in England, months after my mother's death. Since then, he has been with me and my father.

I opened the box of the two cats, who were suspicious and would stay like that for a long time, so I just left the two of them by the big sofa, stroking their little heads, and they would leave whenever they wanted.

I took the bag of food and two pots and took them to the large windows, leaving them there and tearing up the packet of food, putting a little for both of them. In the sink, I filled the third pot of water and left it a considerable distance from the pots with food. They would find it anyway. The tap worked a little differently to open, with a sensor.

I remembered to take the backpack off my back at that moment, drop it on the sofa, with Fumihiro analyzing my shoes on my foot.

I stared at him for a few seconds before he quietly pointed to some slippers — at least they looked like slippers — in a compartment below the counter beside us.

“Uwabaki.” He informed, helpful and kind.

“U-wa-ba-ki.” I spelled it slowly, with him agreeing.

I blew out a breath as I took off my boots and left them by the door, realizing that there was really room for that on that counter when I opened it, seeing the counter divided into two floors with enough space for any type of shoe, then placing the slippers. Mika left his things on the opposite side of the door, almost blocking the way to the kitchen, taking off his shoes. Fumihiro just stood there, beside the door, without moving.

At least those _uwabaki_ were comfortable.

U-wa-ba-ki. I repeated it again in my mind.

So I went to explore the four unknown doors. There was one on the right wall, two on the wall in front of me and one on the wall on the left. The first door from right to left was my room. I knew this because it had a card near the door when I entered.

There was a flat screen television on the wall to my right, with a counter underneath, and it was there that I found the card. There were some interesting items on the counter — some books in English and Scottish, which I imagined was my father’s trick, as well as small decorations. Little dolls with slanted eyes, of all kinds. They were cute and funny. There was also an empty vase or two — more decoration.

But, on the counter, everything was empty, except for that card. Ah, there was also a small card with some numbers and written information (correct address of the building and my floor, emergency phones and the phone number of the management and also the concierge).

I opened the card, calmly, reading it and discovering it was my room:

_Hello, Miss Forsyth-Aitken. I prepared your room the way I was told you like it. I'll be there again at 10am (Tokyo time) on Sunday._

And the signature was in Japanese, so I asked for help from Fumihiro, who informed me that it was the housekeeper. Hattori Naoko.

I nodded, leaving the card on the counter and looking at the opposite wall. My new bed.

It was in a style that looked like a box, but it was shorter and had protections around it, as if holding the mattress. The covers were thick, but the decoration behind the bed meant that I was no longer in the west. Decor in light brown and green bamboo, with what appeared to be bamboo, covered the entire wall. It stretched across that wall and holes opened in it, showing me space for my books in what looked like a bookcase.

Behind the bed was it’s panel, and there were two side tables, one on either side of the bed. The lamps had a strange design, but I thought it was normal for them, since they didn’t even consider changing. I looked at the image to my right, taking a minute to let it out.

Gorgeous.

A single window in the room opened, although the entire wall was covered with windows. The view was phenomenal. This is because my view was none other than the Tokyo Tower. One of it’s postcards. I had researched some things and one of the things that stood out was this tower.

Blue. Red. Yellow. Neon. All of this created a specific focus for that tower.

It was further away, and looked a lot like the Eiffel Tower, which got a smile and left me dazzled. It shone brightly, and my smile stayed on my face when I turned and went to find out what the door on my left was, when looking at my bed.

I opened it, facing a closet. The first door had bedding, and the rest was empty. It was the same brown as the living room and my bedroom, and like the whole house, except for the part that actually had the kitchen, it had carpet. I turned on the light, since the room was dark, seeing a mirror on the opposite wall and analyzing the chandelier, which was also a little different from the western ones.

It was very beautiful.

It had a couple of decorations, but it did seem empty. Even untouched.

I went back to my room, thoughtful about it, analyzing the space between my bed and my television. Maybe a desk could fit there. I needed somewhere to study. It was the only thing I had missed.

There was space, because there was a rug big enough for me to lie down in all positions and my whole body to be on top of it.

I opened the next door, already outside my room, looking at a standard room and seeing a card there too. It was for Mika. This was his room.

Mika did not hide his curiosity when entering the room and analyzing everything. It was a standard Interpol security room, but it had its own bathroom, not a closet, in the attached door. He seemed quite satisfied, although the room was smaller than the one in the house we shared in France.

It was not a very common thing, normally the security guards move as you call them and notify where you intend to go that day, but after some events in Russia, we had to change our logistics and Interpol provided a security guard to live with me and my father, the security guard being Mika, who volunteered for the position.

Interpol and the British Embassy have worked together on my family’s case since my mother’s murder, so there would always be a security guard from each of them with me and my dad. In my case, Interpol's security guard was Mika, and the other two were hired by the British Embassy, usually local in each country, who could hide among the crowd, as was the case with japanese security guards who would be with me while I was in Japan.

The next door was the bathroom that I would share with my father. It was an ordinary bathroom, honestly speaking. The laundry was next to it, before a partition. Then the door opened and we were actually in the bathroom. Quite common, perhaps except for the decorations, which were typical oriental, as seen in my bedroom and living room. In this case, it had white and a little marble, as well as wood.

The door in front of mine was, of course, my father’s room. There was a box that stood out in the corner of the room, but it was sealed and with a “confidential” notice on it. He had a closet too, and his room was bigger than mine. He had two walls of the room full of windows. It had a desk and a full bookcase on one wall. No television in this case.

I closed the door to his room, then leaving my backpack in my room and putting my boots back on, seeing that it would irritate me a lot in the coming months. It was the first time that I saw Fumihiro express a real reaction: the sparkle of amusement in his eyes when he saw me trying to adapt to their culture. He hid it right away.

I took my bags from the trunk of the car and then we actually went up to my new home, with me leaving my bags on the bedroom floor, with Mika staring at me, waiting for me to sit at the living room table, where he was waiting for me.

“Standard procedure, Isla.”

I nodded, with him and Fumihiro standing next to me at the table. He unlocked the armored suitcase, opening it in front of me and taking out a folder of documents. He took the first sheet, handing it to me.

It was a map of Tokyo, with the three Interpol hiding places marked there, for me.

“I need you to familiarize yourself with the neighborhoods and the routes to the three hiding places”, he informed me, while I was trying to understand the neighborhoods, having difficulty “Fumihiro.” He asked.

The security-driver took a red pen, seriously, asking for permission and supporting the paper on the table, circling some neighborhoods close to the hiding places.

“Under no circumstances, enter these neighborhoods.” He asked seriously, passing the paper back to me and leaving the red pen in the briefcase. “These are neighborhoods with declared dangerous activity, which may be related to terrorist informants linked to the attack to your mother.”

I nodded, running my fingers over the map.

“This map will always be with me when we leave”, Mika explained to me “when you need it, I'll be giving it to you.”

I agreed again, with Mika opening the lid of the suitcase, showing me the weaponry.

I took my gun out of there, checking its serial number, turning it and opening its magazine, checking everything and putting it away, then picking up the document and signing the confirmation that all the equipment was correct. Mika also signed after confirming everything, as did Fumihiro.

Mika took three pictures from inside the folder, showing me my security guards. Him, Fumihiro and a third security that I had not yet met. Enomoto Akio was the name of the third security guard.

I nodded, handing the photos back to Mika and smiling at Fumihiro.

“Thank you.” I said, kindly. “I have known for some years that my security guards are chosen, but they can decide whether or not to accept the job.”

He bowed his head in respect, saying nothing.

It also meant that he had no family. It was a prerequisite to be my security guard and my father’s. So they wouldn’t be manipulated and give me up.

“Now that we're talking,” I got up, calmly, watching Peta climb up on the counter behind the sofa, exploring the place. Nica was still in her box, determined to spend her night there, like the surly she was. “I'm going to take a shower and sleep until 10 am.” I informed Fumihiro, who agreed. “I should only go out in the afternoon, probably in the late afternoon. Mika will tell you if I decide to leave early, in advance.”

He agreed, with Mika going to his room. I saw him open a drawer and take a key out of it, handing it over to Fumihiro.

A copy of the house key. All security guards had it, of course. He wished us a good night and then left, locking the door after leaving. I stared at Mika, smiling quietly and saying goodbye before going to my room. Mika, by contrast, went into the kitchen, quiet and whistling, now.

I sat on the bed, analyzing the view of the city and streets. It was five forty in the morning. I picked up my pajamas from the top of the suitcase, going to take a shower and finding the bath towels on the counter, satisfied. The toilet in the bathroom had a lot of buttons on its side, in Japanese. I left my clothes in a basket built into the counter on the sink, going to the living room again, analyzing the place.

Mika was already possibly sleeping, but there was no way to know. All the rooms were soundproof, precisely because Mika would need privacy in his spare time, and because my father and I also had our lives.

I stopped in the living room, leaning on the back of the big sofa and studying the view from the windows. It would be nice to put a balcony and a scratcher in that window, so the cats could sleep around. Maybe put pillows on the counter. And so we would also have more space to store things, like bags of food and their travel boxes.

The room was dark now, as Mika himself had turned off the lights. The heater seemed to be on. The city was waking down there, but I couldn’t hear anything. The tower glowed, several windows of neighboring buildings were beginning to have their lights on.

I sent a message to Mina, my only friend, saying that I had arrived (without informing the part “in Japan”). She was quite stubborn, which is why she was my friend. We met in high school in Russia. Russians are stunningly beautiful by nature, but Mina was phenomenal. She had pursued a career as a model, and it was working.

Apparently she was on the cover of Vogue Italy. I had received a picture of her, but the magazine itself had gone to my home in Scotland, so it would take a few days to get here, in Japan, since it was up to my grandparents to check the mailbox and then send it again.

Mina had always had a suicidal instinct, too, so even after my first direct assassination attempt, she had visited me at the hospital and made fun of the terrorists. I think we were friends precisely because she didn’t take it all as seriously as she should have. Maybe not to freak out. She knew a lot, but she knew that others could never know, like where in the world I was. For her own sake.

I bit my lip, my hair in a tight bun that made my skull hurt. My head seemed to have an absurd pressure on it, as if I still flew. My eyes burned, and I knew it was tiredness. I didn’t want to go to sleep, not yet. I didn’t want to dream. Not if the pattern were repeated.

But I needed, so I went to bed.

Before, I turned one of my bags (carefully!) and dropped its contents on the floor (even more carefully!!!). I took the teddy bear with more than eleven years of production from the distorted pile of books and perfumes, as well as makeup, taking it to bed with me. I went back and at least arranged the objects turned over in the middle of the floor, out of sheer need not to see all that overturned, and then finally I laid down.

I turned off the lights, hid under the new smelling covers and curled up in them, sleeping in the middle of the bed, facing the crack of light between the dark curtains, now closed.

I analyzed my cell phone, which I had put on to charge before going to shower, stretching out to the nightstand and checking the time. I pursed my lips and deleted its french time, leaving only japanese time. I set the alarm clock for ten in the morning, did the math for what time I would have to take my medication due to the japanese time zone and turned around in bed, facing the darkness of the curtains.

I slept minutes later, out of exhaustion. _Jet lag_ had already given up on me.

Overturned car. Excruciating pain. Broken and exposed bones. Hot blood. Blond hair hard with blood. Glassy eyes. Ache.

Much pain.

A burning and anxiety was urging me.

A shout. Then, several.

Twisted and hot metal, burning. Screams. Police and ambulance sirens. Strong hands and noises of bodywork being torn.

_Muerta_.

The alarm clock rang.

I pressed the button to turn it off, turning over on the bed, feeling my pajama shirt sweaty from the nightmare, still breathing hard.

Every time. No matter where I went, the memories were still there. No matter how far from Mexico or how new it was because of what happened, it was still there. Those horrible memories of my mother's body destroyed beside me while my body screamed in pain and my bones were broken.

I swallowed hard as I sat on the bed, pushing the covers to my feet, breathing deeply and hard. My body was shaking, I was sweating, my teeth were chattering as if I were at the North Pole wearing only thin clothes, and I knew I was freezing.

It was one of the symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). My hands and feet were shaking when I got up, but I still did. My chest was heavy, and claws clutched my heart. It was agonizing, but I needed to move.

I didn't expect it to go away simply because I had moved on. It didn’t work that way, however comforting it might be to think otherwise. And it really hadn’t gone.

I wondered when I would be able to sleep one night without nightmares based on real facts. It was one of my biggest curiosities about myself. Perhaps tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys! 
> 
> Hope you're enjoying the story.  
> Anyways, just letting you know that even though I have been away for plenty of time... the chapters will be realeased once per month. I'm working on another project right now (in portuguese), so I can't properly translate the chapters faster than this. Besides, Mari (the translator/revisor) also doesn't have that much of free time.  
> Buuuuuuuuut I'm really sorry for making everyone who's interested in the story waiting. 
> 
> The first chapters are the slowest ones, I believe. Once things start happening... welp, good luck.
> 
> See you next month! xx, Lia.


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